


A Complex Problem

by innerbrat



Category: Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/F, Genderswap, Misses Clause Challenge, girl!Percy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerbrat/pseuds/innerbrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Armand St. Just married Miss Margaret Blakeney, his sister Marguerite was thrown into a whirl of intrigue, heroics, and romance in the last place she expected. "Always a girl" genderswap of Percy Blakeney.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Complex Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Croik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Croik/gifts).



> I honestly squealed out loud when I was given this amazing prompt, and refused to narrow my choice down to one single scene. So it's entirely possible I got carried away.
> 
> Thanks go to my amazing cheerleaders and beta-readers Becca, Weaves, and Ana, and to Mat for bouncing ideas about primogeniture and the rare occurrence of a baronetess.
> 
> Apologies to Armand St. Just, who took a rather divergent turn of character for the sake of plot.

 

> A woman's heart is such a complex problem - the owner thereof is often most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.
> 
> _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ , Baroness Orczy

\----------------------

Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

It was a time of revolution; it exploded out of Paris and touched the entire country, even the rest of Europe. Before the true cost of the revolution emerged, the young intelligentsia of Paris rejoiced in the society they strove for: where brains and courage and strength of conviction would matter more than an accident of birth.

At the beginning, before the stream of blood became unstoppable, the young, artistic minds of Paris began to model the very free society they dreamed of. A meritocracy, not a monarchy, but in those days nevertheless a veritable Queen emerged in the middle of Paris, holding court among an aristocracy of minds.

Marguerite St Just, the beloved actress of the _Comedie Francais_ , hosted nightly soirees in the tiny Paris apartment she shared with her brother. Actors, poets and philosophers mixed with headstrong politicos, and the witticisms flowed as freely as the wine. Before their dreams became a nightmare of murder, the Rue de Richelieu was a revolutionary Versailles.

How this exclusive circle of intellects broke long enough to let in the idiotic English lady Margaret Blakeney, no one really agreed. But there she was, chaperoned sometimes by her father’s valet, although often she even arrived sans chaperone. And in the heady days of revolutionary Paris, no one mentioned the impropriety. What she might want from the soirees, however, was as much a mystery as what the company saw in her. Half the time, she simply sat with a bored expression on her pretty face, as high art and the complications of revolutionary politics flew about in the air above her head, most often in French, of which language she spoke not a word. Sometimes she offered an inane comment in English, which would be met with laughter, rarely of the kindest intent.

Impropriety was one matter, but the issue of safety on the streets quite another. Ever the most gracious hostess, Mlle St Just would never hear of her English friend walking back to her lodgings alone in the night, despite the latter's lazy protest that she did not mind the cold air.  So Miss Blakeney frequently stayed with the St Justs after the other guests had returned home for the night. On one of these occasions, Marguerite took it on herself to ask her friend if she was not dreadfully bored by the evening’s conversation.

“La! Most terribly, I'm afraid,” she replied. “Especially when the conversation whips around so quickly in French, and I can only catch every third word.”

“Oh, Peggy, then why do you come and subject yourself to such tedium?”

“What else is there to do? The life of a lady must ever be tedium, must it not? We are not permitted to do anything of interest.”

“Nothing of interest!”

“Indeed. Were I a gentleman, you can be sure I'd be hunting every night; exploring the world like Cook; playing cricket at Lords. Perhaps I'd even join the army and serve the King. Instead I must content myself with looking pretty and avoiding the talk of marriage.”

“And here am I, busying myself on the stage and delighting in company every night. Am I then not a lady? Or am I tedious?”

“Margot, darling, I did not mean you,” Peggy said in a more gentle tone that she only used when the girls were alone together. “You could make  even the dullest of soirees the brightest in Europe. You hardly need my endorsement for that.”

Marguerite reddened the slightest amount, for the esteem of this particular friend always seemed the most worthy, perhaps because it came from such an unlikely direction, and possibly because, were she and Miss Blakeney not such good friends, they might very well become rivals for the attention of society.

Miss Blakeney was certainly a beauty. Tall to almost a man's height, with that particular rosy complexion the English were so proud of, always dressed and coiffed to the very height of fashion. It was not unheard of for a young man to declare his love for her on sight alone, although this conviction was frequently challenged by the dull, lazy look in her pale blue eyes, and more often than not completely dissolved when she opened her mouth. Margaret Blakeney had a witch’s screech of a laugh, which she employed often, and frequently in response to jokes at her own expense. She was known to be slow-witted, shallow and interested in nothing but clothes and society, and was popular at events for the amusement she supplied. Despite the enormity of her dowry and the increasing frailty of her father Sir Algernon Blakeney, Bart., it was considered no great surprise in either London and Parisian society that she had yet to secure a husband.

Her friendship with Mlle St Just was a source of great bafflement, but generally  it was supposed that the French actress simply enjoyed the opportunity to sharpen her wits at the expense of her aristocratic friend, knowing that by acquaintance she seemed all the more brilliant. They could not imagine that the “Cleverest Woman in Europe” simply believed that she saw something in those lazy blue eyes - a friendship more devoted and true than that of any of the intellectual elites that demanded she perform her brilliance for them nightly, not just on stage but in their very society.

More likely, they decided, it was Armand St Just who encouraged the friendship. Paris was becoming a dangerous place to be, and it was not beyond imagination that the man was doing what many people were doing at the time: looking for a way out. And what better way out than by marrying the richest woman in England? It was not, the gossips remarked, the first time St Just had shown mercenary tendencies, and Miss Blakeney was hardly likely to see his machinations coming.

When the match came about, Parisian society nodded their heads, exchanged significant looks and then let it lie, as suddenly they were plunged into bloody revolution and had other items to worry about than the marriage of one of their most vocal republicans.

They would perhaps have been surprised had they known that Miss Blakeney engineered the match herself, with a directness of purpose that might have shocked English society, but for Armand himself was merely amusingly unusual. His reasons for pursuing the path she clearly laid for him were not mercenary as much as they were made out of fondness for Marguerite. Valuing his sister's health and happiness beyond his own, Armand had acted to secure for Marguerite, not simply safe transport out of France, but also a sister who would be as loyal and devoted to her as he was himself.

So they arrived in England, and the Frenchman suddenly found himself heir to one of the greatest single fortunes in England, and thrown into courtly circles in a way he had never thought to dream for himself and his sister. Sir Algernon was the holder of an old Scottish title that was free of English primogeniture, and thus his only daughter stood to inherit the baronetcy herself on his passing. While she glided through courtly circles, St Just recoiled from English society: he had far too many pressing concerns in his home country, but he left his sister in the care of his young wife. With her patronage, Mlle St Just had the whole of English society orbiting her brilliance as surely as she had the French. St Just was widely praised solely for the great favor he did in giving his sister to them. As for his loveless marriage to England's richest heiress, that was considered no less than what the silly girl deserved for her folly.

Marguerite, for her part, had no lack of a suitor, but kept them all at bay, crying ignorance of English customs and her desire to experience society before she made a choice. Glorying in her new place in society, she seemed for all the world to be the happiest woman alive. But in truth she had not been happy since her brother's wedding.

It was the very morning after the wedding. Sir Algernon had arrived in Paris long enough to give his approval before the ceremony, and the entire combined family of Blakeney and St Just had travelled together to Calais, where they rested in an inn overnight. The young lovers had, by rights, been given the night to themselves, but shortly after breakfast the bride was stolen away by her new sister for a stroll in the crisp sea air.

They had walked companionably, arm in arm, for quarter of an hour, before Marguerite had felt obliged to break the silence.

“Peggy, my dearest,” she started. “Now we are sisters, we can have no secrets from each other.”

“Lud, Margot, please do not tell me you pulled me away from my wedding so we can catalogue all our histories,” Peggy protested. “What secret could you possibly expect me to have that it warrants such a long excursion?”

“Oh, darling, I'm sure that you have nothing but honesty for me,” Marguerite protested. “But I feel I must tell you my darkest shame, for I know that you could not love me any less. I must tell you about the Marquis St Cyr.”

Their walk stopped, and Peggy turned to her friend. Marguerite was tall, but the Englishwoman, when she was not idly slouching, had the advantage. Marguerite knew, from just the look in her eyes, that Peggy had already heard the story.

“Do you mean how you denounced him? Sending him and his entire family to the guillotine?”

It was the cool manner in which she asked it, her icy blue eyes not leaving Marguerite's own, that pierced Marguerite's heart deeply. That idle silliness passed away in an instant, revealing accusation and distrust; the devotion Marguerite had imagined she'd see forever had vanished.

She reached for Peggy's hands, but found them so cold and unyielding that she dropped them at once

“Then you've heard the story.”

“Is it true?”

Oh, how Marguerite wanted to tell Peggy everything in that moment, to explain how Armand had become so jaded he would take a wife without love just so his Margot could have a sister! How she wanted to throw herself on her friend's mercy! She longed to confess how little she knew about the swiftness of the new French justice; how she had thought she was passing on little more than barbed gossip, never thinking of the terrible consequences in her love for an abused brother.

But that ice in Peggy's eyes froze her heart. She was never going to beg for forgiveness from a sister who had made up her mind.

A sister now, but never again a friend.

So she drew herself up, despair vanishing under pride, and she confirmed that this terrible crime did indeed lie at her feet.

 

\----------------------------

  
All of society was abuzz with news of the Scarlet Pimpernel: that valiant Englishman who, along with his loyal band of followers, risked life and limb to steal away condemned French aristocrats, sometimes from under the very nose of Madame Guillotine herself. Social circles began to swell with the numbers of these refugees from across the Channel, and they came with yet more stories of his bravery and heroics.

Most recently, he had been heard of leading a whole family of aristocrats out of Paris; all on horseback, all dressed as soldiers of the Revolution, claiming themselves to be hot on the heels of the Pimpernel. The joke, as Lord Antony Dewhurst explained to a fascinated supper table, was that they were indeed following the Pimpernel, for he was dressed as the Captain of the Guard himself!

He firmly rejected all appeals from the ladies present to explain what exactly his own involvement with the escapade was, explaining that he spoke only from rumor, but they might appeal to the Duc de Chalis for the truth of it.

“I think you must know the man, Lord Tony,” Marguerite teased him gently, “for your report to be so accurate.”

“On that matter, madam, my lips are sealed,” he replied. “But I’m sure you will note that on the very night that escape took place, I was dancing with you at Lord Thurlow’s ball.”

“Indeed, I cannot be expected to remember every person with whom I dance at every ball. But la, I believe you are right, for that was the night you sent your carriage to escort me, so much did you wish to see me dance to exhaustion.”

“I did so on royal orders. Your highness?”

Hearing himself being appealed to, the Prince of Wales, who had seated himself between Mme and Mlle St Just, let out a guffaw.

“And rightly so. We couldn’t have Mademoiselle St Just missing a ball just because her brother was out of the country, what?”

“I say.” This was Lady Somerset, who wore a broach styled exactly like a red star-shaped blossom. She leant forward to towards Marguerite, adopting a conspiratorial tone. “Your brother does spend much of his time in France, does he not?”

Marguerite laughed gaily at the very idea, but her response was lost by a loud snort from the other side of His Highness.

“My husband?” Peggy put in, “Lud, my lady, if only he would spend as much time in England as the Scarlet Pimpernel must do, to deliver all those Frenchies to London.”

The Earl of Somerset agreed. “St Just and the Pimpernel share one thing in common: wives who must spend much of their time waiting alone.”

“You think he is married?” Marguerite asked.

“If he is, I pity her,” his lordship said. “She must spend every moment of her life fearing for his, if the risks are to be believed.”

“But surely the pride she felt for him would belay those fears,” Marguerite replied quickly. “To be married to a man capable of such bravery in the face of dangers.”

Peggy snorted. “My sister hopes he is not married, for she wishes his hand to himself.”

Marguerite flushed lightly, and turned the conversation quickly around, but not before noticing that, whatever her own feelings, there were a few unmarried - and indeed married - ladies at the table that seemed to share that sentiment.

The truth was, Marguerite had indeed found her thoughts turning frequently towards the Pimpernel, that dashing, heroic stranger who, rather than embroiling himself in politics and outright condemnation of the Revolution, took on himself the dangerous task of allaying the very worst excess of the movement, stemming the stream of blood one head at a time.

She was never sure what to make of these daydreams. Not once before had Marguerite found herself reflecting on the possibility of loving a man; she had decided long since that she might as well be incapable of such emotion. She enjoyed their company, of course, but as conversational partners, intellectual equals. Not once before had the thought of a man ever made her sigh.

Enough; it was admiration, nothing more. And who would not admire that great hero? Even as Marguerite found her heart yearning for the country she left behind, she found herself mourning for the grand future Republic that had so far fallen from the lofty ideals her circle had dreamt of in the Rue de Richelieu. That a man would put himself forward to save just a few of those lives destined for the guillotine, at great risk to himself and the men who were said to obey his every word, she found herself stirring with the same loyalty that must inspire his followers.

She sometimes wished that Armand was the mysterious gallant, but he was still a sworn republican, and gave his time to his country, using what political influence he yielded in the attempt to stop the massacre. He had no time to mastermind a never ending series of daring attempts, and even so, the first rescues had occurred before his marriage and escape to England. No, Armand St Just was not the Scarlet Pimpernel, but his sister would love him no less if he were.

 

\--------------------

 

The dreadful loneliness Marguerite had felt since her brother's marriage was alleviated gently whenever he came home to stay with his wife and his sister in Richmond. Ever sensible to his sister's heart, he was aware of the broken friendship between them, but could do nothing to relieve that. The truth behind St Cyr's condemnation was Marguerite's to confess when she was ready, and besides, he could not trust himself to talk of that man without reliving the pain of having lost Angèle de St Cyr, the girl he had loved so ardently those years ago. Peggy never asked him about it, and he could never bear to broach the subject.

  
For all he loved his sister and longed to keep her company, he could never stay in England long. France was his home, and she needed him at this time even more than did Marguerite. It was almost as great a happiness for him as for herself, therefore, when her dearest school friend Suzanne de Tournay, along with her mother and brother, were brought to the safety of England by the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

It was the greatest of coincidences that allowed Marguerite to be in Dover, to bid her brother farewell, on the very night that Suzanne and her family arrived. In the tiny parlor of _The Fisherman's Rest_ , they rushed to each other, clasping their hands together dearly. Not even the Comtesse de Tournay, who did her very best to disgrace and humiliate Marguerite out of revenge for her act against St Cyr, could completely destroy the tenderness of the moment. When the Comtesse ordered her daughter out of the room, she could not depart without hurrying to her childhood friend and kissing her dearly.

The witnesses to that scene were all moved. In particular, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, one of the gentleman who had led the rescue of the family, had developed a tender fondness for Suzanne on the journey from Paris. When he saw the way in which she dashed and embraced her old friend, his esteem rose even further. So engrossed was he in those sweet thoughts, that he completely missed the look of deep envy and longing on the usually vapid face of Peggy St Just as she watched the girls together.

With that arrival, at least, Armand could leave the island with a lighter heart, knowing that finally Marguerite had a friend she could confide in. So he kissed her profoundly there in Dover, and left her waiting, completely unaware that on that very night, another of Marguerite's old friends would appear in England, in order to strike her at the most tender part of her heart: the love she held for a brother that was more like a father to her. Armand St Just left England, oblivious to the danger that waited for him, personally.

 

\-------------------------

 

Two evenings later, on the night of Lord Grenville's ball, Marguerite was visited in her box at the opera by that same friend, Armand Chauvelin, French Ambassador to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. There he delivered the blow to her heart: St Just had been captured, a known accomplice of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and would face the very worst of French justice unless she would aide the ambassador by identifying and betraying that worthy gentlemen before the night was through.

With that loathsome task weighing on her, in the face of those terrible consequences, did Marguerite and her sister-in-law accompany the Prince of Wales to the ball. His highness chattered jovially to them both, laughing at his own wit, at the gay remarks put forward by Marguerite, and the occasional inanity from Peggy. Marguerite tried once to steer the conversation towards the Scarlet Pimpernel, only to have the conversation taken over by Peggy’s insistence on reciting a ridiculous piece of doggerel on the subject.

Marguerite considered letting Peggy know about Armand’s predicament, but to do so in front of the Prince of Wales was unthinkable. And then they were thrown into the busy society of supper and a ball, and never were the ladies alone together.

Marguerite was the belle of any ball. With her sparkling wit and every physical grace honed to perfection on the boards she adored and was adored at every event. Even with the shadow of her brother's doom darkening her step, the actress played the part of the unaffected gay Frenchwoman, dazzling society with her wit and her charm, while her heart ached in her breast.

Contrarily, Peggy took no particular enjoyment in the dancing element of balls. Oh, she enjoyed dining and conversation, and she delighted in the act of dressing up and observing fashions around her, but with her long limbs and lazy posture she was a clumsy dancer, and would frequently forget the progression even while part of the lead couple herself. It had led to a reluctance on the part of the gentlemen to ask for her hand beyond the barest requirements for polite society, and she retreated to the card tables as soon as possible.

It was at the card tables, Marguerite supposed, that Peggy maintained the few friendships she enjoyed with the men of London society. Sir Andrew Ffloulkes was chief among these: a gentle, honest young man who had but recently come into his inheritance. He tolerated Peggy St Just as many did, with a smile and a sigh for her silliness. Of all her acquaintance, however, he seemed more friendly than mocking towards her ridiculousness. They were old friends, and he often came visiting at Richmond, where he was fully courteous to Marguerite and Armand, and counted them as friends as well as he did Peggy.

Sir Andrew was universally popular, and more than any of his friends, gave no great effort in hiding his association with the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. “Nineteen to follow, one to lead,” he often said these days, and spoke of his leader in cryptic, but admiring tones.Marguerite resolved to keep watch on his behaviour more than anyone’s. If the Pimpernel was to be found that night, Sir Andrew would be her lead.

She observed him closely that night, and saw him frequently exchange words with those gentlemen she knew to be associated with the League. this meant nothing, of course: He was popular and spoke to everyone. It was when she happened to spy Lord Hastings pass him a scrap of paper in a surreptitious manner, which Ffoulkes pocketed without a glance, that Marguerite knew she had fixed on the right gentleman.

She seized on the opportunity, using every tool provided to her by her quick mind and her skill as an actress. Securing Sir Andrew for the Scotch reel, it was no great forgery to act faint, and have him escort her to a quiet room. There, when he read his note and attempted to burn all evidence, she seized the smoldering paper, with every act of gratitude that he should attempt to relieve her giddiness with smoke.

Marguerite managed to catch the slightest glance at the paper before returning it to its owner, professing her delight that he be exchanging love notes with her dear friend Suzanne de Tournay. Flustered, he finished burning it, and the evidence was destroyed forever.

 

 

>   
> _Start myself tomorrow..._
> 
>   
> _“...if you wish to speak to me again, I shall be in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely.”_
> 
>  

And signed at the end with the device of the tiny five petaled flower, the image of which was the talk of London.

Mortified at her own actions, but driven to despair in her devotion to Armand, Marguerite mechanically conveyed the contents to Chauvelin, and left him to close his tightening noose around the neck of England's most celebrated hero.

As one o'clock approached, Chauvelin retreated into the supper-room, determined to finally uncover the identity of that blasted Pimpernel. As late as it was, the room lay abandoned by revelers and servants alike, frozen in the same disarray that the diners had left it in. Deserted, that is, except for one occupant, laid out on a sofa in the corner of the room.

It was Mrs St Just, that vain and silly lady, still sitting on the sofa as if she had intended simply to take the weight off her feet when exhaustion and intoxication overcame her. One long hand still curled around the stem of a wine glass on the table next to her, giving weight to that hypothesis. Her legs stretched out beneath her, inelegantly poking her feet out from under her exquisite skirts, and her head lolled back against the back of the sofa, her fair curls framing a pink face, fashionably painted lips parted by a fraction as she slumbered.

Another gentleman would have left immediately, leaving the lady to her necessary sleep. Or perhaps to fetch her sister- in-law, and alert her to the situation, suggesting that it might be time for the ladies to return to their home. Chauvelin did neither, his mission was so urgent. He simply regarded the lady snoring gently, oblivious to the ball that spun away on the floors above them, and the dire situation in which her husband found himself.

As Chauvelin watched her, a sneer of contempt arose on his face: he could have just as easily gone to St Just's wife with his fatal threat, and had her, or both ladies working for him for the man's life. But this vapid ignorama would have been useless to him compared to the ingenuity and intelligence he had been right to expect from the sister.

And so, M. Chauvelin found himself a seat in that same room as the lady, and sat back to wait for his prey.

 

\-----------------------

 

Mrs St Just was sought out and revived when her sister-in-law found the events of the night had become far too stressful to bear, and their carriage was ordered post haste. The ladies sat opposite each other in the St Justs' _vis-à-vis_ , each wrapped warmly in furs as they headed out to Richmond. Peggy abhorred the city; she spent as little time as she could in town, outside of social engagements. Even when attending balls this late into the night, she always insisted on taking the couch all the way home. It was a predilection that Marguerite was grateful for, even in the silence that rode the carriage with them.

She resolved to speak not a word to Peggy about Armand. The ladies spoke but little in private at this time, and what would Marguerite say? Mrs St Just had no love for her husband. She might have believed herself in love once, but since their marriage there had been just the barest of civility between the couple, their affection cooled by the barrier between the women. What should Peggy St Just care about her Armand? Should he be executed for his crimes, his widow could finally be free of the sister she despised.

But as Marguerite sat in the carriage, watching the woman sitting opposite her, she began to be conscious of a desire to lean forward and take her sister's hand in her own. The weight she carried in her breast was almost too much to bear, and she had no one else in the world she could turn to. Peggy would at least have understood the helplessness of a woman, and she might, in the face of Marguerite's complete despair, have offered some of that tenderness they had left behind them in the Rue de Richelieu.

Peggy had her face turned decisively to the side, watching the moonlight dancing on the surface of the Thames as it raced by. Frank the driver, at Peggy's customary insistence, was running the horses hard, and they were fresh, energetic animals, so the night air rushed past them, pinching color into both sets of cheeks through their lightest coverings of powder. In the pale light, Marguerite could make out the regal lines of her profile, the straight nose and clear brow which, when not marred by clumsiness and vacant inanity, made Peggy St Just a truly beautiful woman.

If only that face would soften for the sake of her once dearest friend.

They rode home in silence to a house empty of family. Sir Algernon was in the North, at the family estate, and Armand – Marguerite felt his absence heavier than ever knowing the danger he was in. As soon as Frank had helped first Peggy, then herself down from the carriage, Marguerite turned away from the idea of going to bed just yet. Instead she took herself, in her ballgown and furs, around to the back, where she could look over the expansive, beautiful gardens down to the riverbank.

It was a warm October night, and the sky was free of clouds, giving Marguerite a clear view of the very same stars that somewhere, her brother might be looking up at in the same moment. It was a source of but little comfort. All she could think about was her own despicable act; the brave man she had doomed in exchange for Armand; and the pain of having to carry this guilt entirely to herself.

Just as she had resigned herself to turning in for a undoubtedly sleepless night of suffering, she heard the unmistakable rustle of skirts sweeping over gravel, and the shadows of the tree lined promenade resolved themselves into the silhouette of Peggy. She too had chosen to walk rather than retire, her hair falling out from the pile she'd constructed at the beginning of the evening, now collapsing in pale curls around the fur on her shoulders, topping a beautiful pale blue ballgown.

Peggy resembled nothing so much as a river sweeping together out of mountain streams. Her pale complexion shone fresh and bright, but her whole attitude was icy cold as she moved forward with a firm stride, more interested in the walk than her surroundings. She did not notice Marguerite, or paid her no heed, moving up to the terrace and the house.

Marguerite could not stand the loneliness anymore: she would have confided everything to Frank had he been convenient, but instead she impulsively cried out:

“Peggy!”

Peggy stopped sharply, looking around with an expression of bewilderment, as if she had no idea her walk had not been alone. When she spied Marguerite, she dropped a curtsey, as polite as she ever was to her sister-in-law.

“Marguerite.”

For a moment, Marguerite had nothing to say; she only knew that right at this time she could not bear to be alone, and needed just to keep her sister-in-law near.

“Will you stay a while, sister? It's such a beautiful night, and it would be all the better were it to be shared. Unless my company is so repulsive to you it would sour even this fresh air?”

“On the contrary: surely you could have no use for a silly little girl like myself? You could enjoy the evening so much better with your own clever thoughts than with me distracting you.”

She curtsied again, and swept around the skirts of her ballgown, as if intending to continue her ascent into the house.

“Peggy, do stay!” Marguerite protested, drawing closer. “You must know how much I have missed you since you drew away from me.”

“I from you! Is that how you remember it? Then I declare it must be true, you were always so much cleverer than I.”

“Nay, do not concede so placidly!” Marguerite cried. She took one final step towards Peggy, closing the physical distance between them. “You always used to speak your mind to me, even when we disagreed.”

“You are perhaps looking for an argument, then? Forgive me, Mademoiselle, I think you might find better sport among sharper wits than mine.”

“Oh, Peggy! Can I not simply desire the company of the lady who has been my dearest friend?”

“That,” Peggy said, with measured coldness, “you shall have tomorrow. I have not the brightest memory, but I am certain I heard you at supper confirming the presence of Suzanne de Tournay at our home tomorrow.”

It was true; Marguerite had pressed her school friend for a visit, in the very presence of the Prince of Wales, whose loud approval of the scheme had prevented any opposition from the vengeful Comtesse. So preoccupied had Marguerite been with her own thoughts and the determination to be with Suzanne tomorrow, she had not even looked for the approval of the lady of the house, who so frequently and passively bowed to her social demands.

When Peggy raised the subject now, Marguerite's keen ears determined that she could hear not just the now established disconnect between the two of them, but something passionate beneath the careful levelness of Peggy's tone. A fire she'd believed she must have only imagined in her memories of Miss Blakeney – had it been fanned back into life by thoughts of Suzanne's visit?

“You, Peggy!”  Her voice shook, her hands clenched together under her breast, pressing in as if that could control the pain growing therein. “You, who called me sister, once. Can we never be friends again?”

“Of course we can. I married your brother, did I not? Now my house and myself are his and yours for your playground. Do you want more, Margot? Are you hoping that I will sit quietly again and listen to you with your other devoted admirers?”

Peggy raised her head marginally, her habitual slouch appearing to melt away as her height only served to lengthen the distance between her and Marguerite. It was undoubtedly true; her sensibility had been stirred, and she drew herself up with the hauteur of a queen, determined to shield that vulnerability from Marguerite. But it had been shown, now, and Marguerite darted for it, desperate for confirmation that she did not suffer alone.

“You were the most ardent of my admirers, until you married my brother.”

“And the very day of that marriage, the Marquis de St Cyr and his entire family perished at the guillotine, and I heard the gossip that my new sister-in-law had been the one to send them there.”

“I told you the truth of that!”

“After I heard it from other mouths.”

“And you never asked me for confirmation.”

It came rushing out then; Marguerite could hold it back no longer. Effusively she told Peggy everything about Armand's love for Angèle, of his youthful worship of everything that sweet child touched. She described the poem he had penned for her, and the severity of the punishment that came crashing down on him for the crime of loving a lady above his class.

“You are his wife,” she pressed, “can you tell me you have never wondered about the scars he still wears on his back? I dressed those wounds, Peggy – a girl of fifteen nursing a brother who had been a father to her, thrashed for loving unwisely.”

Peggy said nothing, but her eyes burned with the words she did not speak. Both of the ladies in that garden at Richmond were beginning to understand how easy it is to commit that particular sin. Marguerite stopped for breath, and dropped her eyes to the delicate gloves on her hands.

“Armand – he never looked for love again after that.”

“He married me.”

The challenge had gone, replaced by simply stated fact. Armand had recovered from his experience enough to take a wife; another lady of rank, with a title of her own awaiting her. Marguerite had been too distracted by her own concerns, her efforts to undo the blow she'd dealt St Cyr, and her happiness at having Peggy as a sister, that she had never questioned the match too closely.

“He married you,” she agreed. “He married you for reasons that are not the purest, I admit on his behalf, but, Peggy – he never lied to you. Why did you marry him?”

But Peggy's face was blank again. “I suppose I am just not clever enough to decline a proposal when it is offered. And your brother, my dear, is a singularly loyal gentleman. What more could a woman wish in a husband?”

“What of love?” Marguerite asked impulsively. The word seemed to prompt the faintest of sneers from Peggy.

“No, my dear. I would never ask that.”

Marguerite felt, in her heart, that this was a lie, or not the complete answer, but this talk of Armand was stirring her self pity, and her eyes were beginning to sting once more. A gray light was approaching from the east, and in this, Peggy could see the tears touching her sister's face.

“Lud, Margot! Whatever are you holding back?”

“Armand!” Marguerite managed, the words crashing out in sobs. “Oh, Peggy! Armand is in the most deadly danger!”

Marguerite staggered forward one step, her knees suddenly weak under her own weight, but caught herself just in time. She looked so pathetic in that moment, her auburn hair glowing in the approaching dawn, her face pale and tired from the emotional strain so that the redness of her eyes stood in even starker contrast. Peggy's hand clenched on her fan as she fought the urge to rush down and take Marguerite's hands in her own, just as she had seen Suzanne de Tournay do so unselfconsciously.

“Armand?” Peggy kept her voice steady, distant. “What danger could he possibly be in?”

“Oh, that foolish man!” Marguerite managed. “He has joined the Scarlet Pimpernel, heedless of the risk! And even more foolishly, he wrote of his intentions to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Now the note has fallen into the wrong hands, and he faces the guillotine unless...”

The rest of what she wanted to say was lost in choking sobs, and she lost the ability to look at Peggy. Her face, previously ashen, flushed with heat and she brought up a hand to her mouth, then dropped it, and tried to speak again, only to choke on the words.

“Marguerite,” Peggy entreated her, “do control yourself, I can understand but every other word.” But her eyes had hardened even further, her back straightened with resolve when she had heard of her husband in danger. The blood drained from her face when she heard of the cause of his danger.  Her folded fan twitched but slightly under the effort of keeping her comportment, but otherwise she moved not one step towards her distraught sister-in-law, while that lady cried herself out.

“What is there to be done?” The Englishwoman asked, with a calm that both confused and angered Marguerite, as engulfed as she was in the the throes of emotion.

“What?” She echoed. “I do not know, Peggy. I have exhausted everything I can think of.”

“Your friend Chauvelin?”

How bitter that name sounded to Marguerite's ears, spoken by Peggy's cold tongue. Unable to face the consequences of admission, Marguerite shook her head mutely.

“Well,” Peggy continued. “You may have exhausted everything at your command, my dear. But I have not. You forget I am a dear friend of Mrs Fitzherbert. I will pay her a visit tomorrow – hush, sweetheart, for all is not lost.”

“You will go?” Marguerite forced her tears free and once again searched Peggy's face for a sign of that passion she was sure she'd seen. “You would do this for  - for him?”

But of course Peggy would try to save her husband! What nonsense could Marguerite be thinking to think she'd do this for friendship?

Peggy nodded her head slightly, and dropped a brief curtsy. “Of course, Mademoiselle, I will do what I can. Now to bed with you. You have exhausted yourself for tonight.”

Two pairs of blue eyes – one pale as the dawn, the other as rich as noon – finally met on that terrace, and tried to tell each other the truth they were both afraid of. Marguerite then closed the two steps between them and clasped Peggy's hands in her own, pressing their fingers together.

“Thank you, Peggy,” she said, simply, but with all the force those two words could hold. Then she had swept past her, their ballgowns rushing past each other, until Marguerite had disappeared into the house, not waiting to see the indifference with which she was sure her gratitude would be met.

So engaged was she in her own misery and the relief of sharing it, that she entirely missed the way that cold, proud Englishwoman swooned against the railing, then collapsed straight down into the pool of her skirts, overcome with tears she could no longer hold back.

\------------------

Marguerite was yet too fraught to find sleep easily. She lay watching the dawn touch the canopy of her bed, trying to make sense of the discussion she had just had. Did Peggy really think that she could save Armand's life by paying visits in London? Marguerite could hardly believe the calm, matter of fact way that lady had announced her intention to help. But it had helped, she could not deny that – when Peggy had very simply stated that she would do what she could, it was as a balm to Marguerite's aching heart. Just the assurance made it easier to believe that Armand would be safe. It might just have been the relief that comes from sharing the burden, or it might be that Marguerite, even after the rift between them, could not believe that Peggy would give her word to something she would not accomplish.

And she could scarcely believe her own audacity at that fleeting thought she had seized on, almost given voice to in her passion; to think that Peggy would do this not just out of the loyalty of a wife, but for the tender friendship she had once shared with Marguerite herself. But had not Marguerite seen for herself the fire behind Peggy's dull eyes? Try as she might have done to hide it, the spark had been there, just as it had been there in Paris. Marguerite could not have imagined it! Whether it was pride of the betrayed friend, or shame of the strength of her feelings, something had made Peggy strive to hide her emotion, to be the silly unattached airhead with no strong feelings for anything other than the cut of her dresses.

Marguerite's dear friend, who had slept with her in that apartment on the Rue de Richelieu like they were children - she was still there, still alive under that mask. The façade had been in place even in society back then, but since marrying Armand it had become fixed, worn even in private with Marguerite. Marguerite had almost begun to consider she might have imagined the Peggy she had drawn to her heart. Now she knew: Peggy had worked to conceal that girl from the world.

Could it have been her affection for Marguerite that did this? Impossible! Marguerite could believe the proud and fashionable Margaret Blakeney to be afraid of such an attachment, but there would be countless ways of easing that burden without needing such an elaborate performance.

Marguerite slept fitfully and sparingly, too far away from the front of the house to know when precisely Peggy left for London. This did not stop her from imagining she could hear the sound of hooves on the gravel, the creak of carriage wheels, taking the lady of the house away.

When Marguerite rose fully to consciousness, the sun was risen and bright, and the house entirely empty save for the maids attending their morning duties. After breakfast, she made some inquiries about Peggy's departure, and discovered that her sister-in-law had taken the carriage to London, and that the driver had returned just recently, having seen his mistress arrange for the sailing of the Day Dream, the yacht kept for her personal use. Whatever Peggy planned to do with her influence, she evidently intended to exert it somewhere that required sailing.

Marguerite had many times been alone in her brother's house. Armand was busy in France, and Peggy left for frequent visits to her ailing father. He was not long for this world at this point, having succumbed to apoplexy a few months before, and could stand neither strangers nor to be removed from his house. Usually Marguerite kept to the small drawing room near her own bedroom, or to the library. On this morning, however, she was restless, and found herself wandering the house aimlessly, her feet working on their own while her mind was elsewhere.

It could be nothing but her subconscious guiding her feet that led Marguerite to Peggy's own apartments. Marguerite's own rooms were near her brother's at the other side of the house, and she had seldom been in the opposite wing. Marguerite knew from Suzanne de Tournay of the habit among fashionable ladies to take visitors in their dressing room during the hours it took to complete a toilette, and when Armand and Peggy were engaged, she had imagined spending long hours in such intimacy with Peggy in the lady’s own dressing room.

This dream had never come to pass,but Marguerite knew from Armand that Peggy spent a good deal of time in her private rooms. At the beginning of the marriage, he had mentioned a room that she guarded, even from him her husband, more jealously than her own dressing room.

Now she found herself on the landing outside Peggy's bedroom, standing in front of a heavy oak door that had been pulled almost completely to a close. The lock had been turned, but whoever had done so had been in too much of a hurry to check the closure first, and the bar of the lock was left stuck into empty air.  
Hardly knowing what to expect, Marguerite placed a hand on the door and pushed it open, just far enough to admit herself.

Beyond, she found a small personal library that might be mistaken for a gentleman's study, with its large central table and the maps on the wall. The sex of its owner was reflected in small touches such as the delicate needlepoint gracing the cushion of a sitting chair and the bright bouquet in the window, but the dainty writing table was weighed down by a box of papers, and a thick ledger, both which Marguerite had opened before she had registered where she was.

Inside she found all the record keeping and business transactions she might expect of a man tasked with the duty of maintaining a large estate. And yet each note was written and recorded in the same tiny copperplate Peggy would employ to write her correspondence.

It had never before occurred to Marguerite how Sir Algernon, whom she knew was incapable and had been barely sensible even before his apoplexy, had managed to maintain his large estate. And yet here, set out in front of her, was the answer: his daughter Margaret administered it all from her tiny drawing room in Richmond. Armand was preoccupied in France, he cared little for the workings of the British estate; everything was overseen by his wife.

The revelation was startling: Peggy who would complain of tedium in a society she claimed not to follow, who regarded the whole world out of bored, lowered lids, was spending a not insignificant part of her time in this very room, managing one of the largest personal fortunes in England. Sir Algernon had been frail for many years; this endeavor could well reach back into Peggy's girlhood.

No wonder she had married Armand! An indifferent French man who had no use for her fortune, no designs on her title, and but a passing interest in her pastimes, was the ideal shield against more interrogative suitors. When Mme St Just became Dame Margaret, she could continue to manage her own affairs, but what a secret! Marguerite knew that not a single person in that society that gently mocked Peggy for a simpleton would recognize the person who must do all this methodical work behind closed doors. Peggy had told Marguerite she was bored and uninspired as a lady in society, and it was scarcely any wonder, if she had to conceal this business from the world.

Marguerite had never felt as close to her sister-in-law as she did there, standing in this secret lair that Peggy had worked so hard to keep from the world. There was an understanding now that rose up in her as fast as did new questions: why work so hard to be seen as a fool? For Marguerite saw now that the part Peggy played must be as much a role as anything she herself had performed in the _Comedie Francais_. It was an eccentricity, to be certain, but was the secret of Peggy's administering her father's fortune so vital that she should construct such a deliberate and impenetrable persona for herself?

As suddenly as these questions occurred to Marguerite, she was struck by a sudden wave of guilt, and horror at her own violation of Peggy's privacy. Terrified that a maid might discover her indiscretion, she closed the ledger hurriedly and moved towards the door. And she might have never mentioned it again, had her foot not hit something small and heavy on the floor on her way out.

Startled, Marguerite stooped to pick it up and examine it. It was a solid gold seal ring that had been dropped in a hurry after some use at the table. She picked it up and turned it over in her fingers: it held a shield on which was engraved a device Marguerite had seen imitated many times, but only exactly duplicated twice:

A small five petalled flower, in the shape of a star.

It was suddenly all the more imperative that Marguerite get out of that room. Clutching the ring to her, she fled from the secret drawing room into the garden, as far from the confusion and potential questions as she could manage. She flew down the steps from the terrace and down the promenade, where she could hope for some seclusion and be alone with her thoughts.

Of course, it could mean nothing. The Pimpernel was the talk of all England, and near everyone in society fashioned his device into brooches and embroidery. Marguerite herself wore a diadem sporting the flower in rubies and diamonds. It was no great find that Peggy would have a seal ring in the latest fashion.

But Peggy! Who had shown no interest before in his actions, other than to clumsily mock him and the attention he received from society. Peggy, who was the carefully studied height of fashion in every other detail, had never so much as worn a red ribbon in her hat for the last year. Could she, not just be privy to the identity of that gentleman, but intimate enough that he had been in her private drawing room – and recently? Impossible! Marguerite lived in this very house. As palatial as the dimensions were, Peggy could not be receiving visitors without her knowledge.

Armand? No, Armand was already in the Republic's hands when the Pimpernel was at Lord Grenville's ball.

Names flashed through Marguerite's heated brain. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes; Lords Antony Dewhurst and Edward Hastings; all acquaintances of Peggy's, but all had many times admitted to membership, but not leadership of the band. Dewhurst and Foulkes had been in possession of the very letter that implicated Armand. Hastings had acted as messenger between the leader and Ffoulkes. They were possible, but perhaps not likely.

Frank – Sir Algernon's valet who spent much of his life attending to the gentleman's daughter? He would have access to Peggy's drawing room, but his life was too filled with his work to allow for the task of the Pimpernel. No, he must be a gentleman, someone with the leisure time and resources to command a team of other gentlemen and mastermind every scheme.

Marguerite realized at that moment that there was only one reason for the ring to be on the floor where she had found it – if it had been dropped by the one person for whose private use that room was always kept.

Just as this realization was rising to the light and everything Marguerite called sense was trying to fight it down, she was pulled from her thoughts by her name being called from the direction of the house.

“Marguerite! Chere Margot, are you down here?”

It was Suzanne de Tournay, fresh and bright in the sunlight, hurrying down the path. At once, Marguerite slipped the ring into the bosom of her dress and pushed her thoughts as far away as she could manage, putting out her hands to her oldest friend.

“Suzanne!”

Suzanne threw herself into Marguerite's arms and the two of them embraced warmly, keeping their hands in each others even after kissing.

“Margot, cherie, I am so glad to see you!” said Suzanne gaily. “I just had to come early and give you a surprise.”

Even Marguerite's anxiety could not stand the assault of such genuine happiness, and her smile was real despite herself. “And what a surprise, cherie! Will you spend the day with me?”

“Oh yes, I have planned that,” replied Suzanne, turning so she could link arms with Marguerite as they walked.“We have so much to talk about, so many secrets to share!”

Marguerite could not help herself. “Oh la! And I know you must be bursting with a secret to tell me, is it not so? About Sir Andrew Ffoulkes?”

Suzanne blushed so suddenly and profusely that Marguerite knew she had hit the answer. The ladies turned to face each other, and she took both of Marguerite's hands in her own.

“Oh, Margot! You are not angry?”

Overcome with surprise, Marguerite laughed. “Angry, me? No, cherie, I could never be angry for your happiness. What we had is in the past, Suzanne. Now I could not be happier for my friend.”

“Really?” Suzanne threw her arms around her friend's neck. “Oh, Margot, I am so glad to hear you say that. I did not know what you might think of me.”

Marguerite gently removed Suzanne's hands from around her neck, kissing her tiny fingers gallantly. “I think you are a girl very much in love,” she says. “And there could not be a finer object for those affections, either. Sir Andrew is a dear friend of my sister-in-law, and the truest gentleman in all of England. He would make the finest husband, I am sure of it.”

Hearing her lover spoken of by someone whose esteem she valued so highly made Suzanne duck her head, still blushing prettily, and Marguerite took her in her arms again.

“Suzanne, cherie, surely you were not so afraid of my disapproval?”

Suzanne shook her head. “No, I was not afraid,” she said softly. “But I do rejoice in your opinion of him. I'm sure maman will approve. But of course, nothing can be thought of until papa is safe.”

The Comte de Tournay! Marguerite started suddenly out of her concern for her friend's marriage into a much more pressing realization of the danger facing her father. His was one of the many lives Marguerite put at risk when she bargained the Scarlet Pimpernel's life for her brother's. As Suzanne continued to itemize every single one of Sir Andrew's many virtues, Marguerite pressed her hand to her bosom, thinking of the ring hidden there. The owner of that ring had pledged himself to the cause of rescuing the Comte and others like him, and Marguerite had bargained his life away in an evening.

Did Chauvelin discover the identity of the Pimpernel last night, when he sat in the drawing room and watched Peggy St Just dozing away?

Did she, Marguerite, hold the answer to that very same riddle pressed against her breast?

“And of course,” Suzanne was assuring herself as much as her friend, “we have every assurance that Papa will be home safely. Why, my Lord Hastings visited this morning to assure us that the Scarlet Pimpernel himself was in London with the morning light, and sailed directly to Calais to assure my father's safety. Oh, Margot! To think I will see him again so soon!”

In London this morning! Just as Peggy herself had been. She had said it was talk to her friends, to wield influence that might make a difference, but had the Day Dream not sailed that morning? The conclusion was too fantastic even for Marguerite, who had seen all the evidence mount up in front of her.

“Margot?” Suzanne pulled her out of her thoughts, her gentle face so creased with concern that Marguerite realized her own face must look as pale and cold as it felt. “What is wrong? Are you ill, cherie? Of what are you thinking?”

If it had been any one but Suzanne asking the question, Marguerite would no doubt have been the very picture of self control, and not let even a hint through of the secret she held. But in the face of her dear, most trusted friend, it dropped out before she could prevent it.

“Peggy.”

Peggy herself! The brave leader of the band of merry gentlemen, masterminding a network of valiant rescues, conducting the most intricate and daring rescues herself, all the time letting society believe the Scarlet Pimpernel to be a man.

She had been in the supper-room at one o'clock. Had Chauvelin come to that conclusion? Impossible!

“Oh!” Fortunate for that secret, perhaps, that Suzanne misunderstood the meaning behind that misspoken word. “Oh Margot, I knew it! Does your brother know?”

Marguerite looked at her in surprise, but could hardly respond before Suzanne prattled on:

“But of course he does. Armand was always the greatest brother to you, was he not? And no doubt he is free to take his own mistress. Margot, I am so happy for you!”

“No, cherie,” for Suzanne had obviously misunderstood. “No, I... Suzanne, I am just feeling very ill. I am afraid I must cut our visit short this morning.”

Suzanne, of course, understood completely, or at least claimed she did. She threw her arms back around Marguerite's neck and kissed her tenderly before walking back to the house. All Marguerite could do was stand there in shock until a groom arrived with a letter for her.

It was the letter from Armand, that was to incriminate him in being part of the League of the Pimpernel. Chauvelin had promised to return it to the safety of Marguerite's hands when he was certain of the arrest of the Scarlet Pimpernel himself. Questioning the groom led her to the runner who had born the letter, and he confirmed that Chauvelin was posting straight to Dover.

It was enough. Marguerite could conclude that, between the supper-room and Peggy's hasty departure, Chauvelin had uncovered her fatal secret and had started the pursuit. Peggy's sex could be no defense against his cruel justice: she would face Mme Guillotine herself - which might not be the worst she would encounter before that merciful end!

Marguerite could hardly stand under the weight of this new certain dread. The only thing keeping her feet under her was the steel knowledge that something had to be done and that she, Marguerite, was the only person who knew enough to put it into action.

Then, her cold fear melted away under the heat of purpose. She had to warn Peggy. Had to do whatever she could to save her. And if any doubt arose that she, a simple woman, would not manage it, there was only the knowledge that Peggy herself was abroad doing deeds the bravest man in England, whomever that might be, had not risen to.

To London, then! To London and to someone who would aid Marguerite in reaching her sister, and warning the Scarlet Pimpernel of the danger she was in. With the warning, at least, Peggy could – must! - avoid the capture Chauvelin was so sure of.

With a new collectedness and calm, Marguerite ordered her brother's carriage prepared for her, and sent ahead to let Sir Andrew know of her coming. Furnishing herself with money that her brother and sister always kept ready for her disposal, it was not a half hour after Suzanne's departure that Marguerite herself was on the road, with nothing to do on the journey but to prepare herself for what was coming, and reflect on the new understanding that had come rushing to her so quickly.

Peggy St Just! The Scarlet Pimpernel! How could Marguerite have been so foolish? She had suspected from the start that there was more to her friend than she presented to the world. Had not Marguerite herself been privy to glimpses of this real woman in Paris? But the part of the inane, brainless goose had been so well played, even to the careful studying of fashion and the affected slouch of the lazy socialite. How could anyone have suspected that this silly feather-brain was masquerading as a man to save lives abroad?

Peggy, who professed to Marguerite that she longed to hunt and to explore and to play dangerous sports with the gentleman, had found the most dangerous sport of them all, risking her virtue and her life for the sake of a few souls among the hundreds that were being lost every day.

But those few lives included Suzanne's, and her whole family, among the others that were safe in England now. Perhaps they could not stop the Terror – Lord knew Armand had tried! - but they could do what little they could. Marguerite could see Peggy's character laid out clearly now; she who was too strong minded for the role dealt her, practiced in concealing her true intelligence by the lesser secret of running her father's estate, bored by the -- to her -- inane and pointless act of being a lady in society. Peggy Blakeney must have been fired by the idea of combining her need for adventure with the chance to make a difference, however small in the world.

And another reason to marry an unconcerned, impoverished Frenchman like Armand! He had no interest in the Blakeney estate, but a vested interest in the well being of his homeland. Armand was always a romantic, even when the object of that romance became his country rather than women. When Peggy permitted him into her inner circle, was it any wonder he rushed to join her band of loyal gentlemen? Gentlemen such as Lord Hastings, Lord Dewhurst, and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whose esteem in Marguerite's eyes only rose as she reflected on the situation.

It did not seem the faintest bit odd to Marguerite that they would follow a woman – not when that lady was Peggy St Just. It spoke simply of their good sense and the strength of their convictions that they would recognize the strongest, bravest of hearts beating even in a woman's breast. Peggy's intelligence and her passion was superhuman enough to recommend her to the captaincy of their band, and Marguerite did not doubt for a second that the scheme had been her idea from its conception. Every part of Peggy's charade was now laid out before Marguerite's eyes, and she realized that in her brother's wife, she had found the very best, most noble human being in existence.

Suzanne's innocent assumption now seemed well placed. Marguerite had not borne to give it voice before, contenting herself with the companionship and friendship she'd enjoyed in Paris, but there was no denying it. Not now, not when every beat of her heart ached to see Peggy safe and alive. Not when every fiber of her self yearned to with with her again. Marguerite St Just was completely, undeniably, hopelessly in love with her brother's wife!

\------------------

It was the middle of the afternoon by the time she finally reached Sir Andrew's London home, and was shown into his presence. Then, they barely had time to greet each other before Marguerite, still the model of composure she had constructed in Richmond, announced calmly:

“Sir Andrew, I would we had time to waste on pleasantries, but I have come here to inform you that your chief, the Scarlet Pimpernel, my sister Peggy St Just, is in the most deadly danger.”

If she had room for even the slightest doubt about Peggy's identity, it would have been chased away by the way all color and animation disappeared from his countenance at this simple statement. Sir Andrew stood still and pale as marble as he listened to Marguerite's collected relation of the events of last night. She left out, of course, the particulars of her interaction with Peggy, and the personal revelations she'd run into on that front. Instead she owned, quietly and shamefully but with no loss of clarity, her own betrayal for the sake of her brother, her regrets on that front, and earnestly and passionately, her desire to right this terrible wrong and save both brother and sister-in-law.  
  
His countenance softened as he listened to the pathetic plight that Marguerite laid before him, and as he observed quite how moved she was by the situation. Eventually, with the barest hint of a smile, he bowed his head.

“I see now why Peggy married your brother,” he said.

Before Marguerite could press him for further information, he had dipped a deep bow to her. “I am yours to obey, Mademoiselle.”

Brimming with gratitude, she related her plan to him: they were to meet that night in Dover, making their separate ways to allay suspicion from whichever of Chauvelin's spies remained in London, and from London society in general. There, with Sir Andrew disguised as a servant to accompany her, and equipped with his knowledge of the Pimpernel's operations, they would proceed to France to find and warn Peggy. Marguerite harbored no delusions that she would be persuaded to cancel her mission, with those lives that depended on her. But with the warning that Marguerite and Sir Andrew brought her, it was more likely that her brilliant mind would find a way out.

Hope and love were now the forces driving Marguerite forward, all thoughts of despair forced aside by her sureness of purpose. She had an ally, and a plan, and the certainty that came with knowing exactly where she should be and what she had to do. Sitting in her carriage on the road east from London, she had nothing more pressing to do but sit and rest her weary nerves. As the sun disappeared behind her, Marguerite drifted into a soothing sleep, the last image of her mind that of the latent fire burning behind Peggy's half closed blue eyes.

The meeting with Sir Andrew at Dover brought news of an agonizing delay to their plans. A terrible storm was sweeping in from France, and would preclude their putting out that night. But, he was at pains to point out, Chauvelin would be similarly hindered, were he to try to sail to France. And so, they resigned themselves to spending the night there at _The Fisherman's Rest_.

As they waited, Ffloulkes undertook to amuse Marguerite by relating his own history. Sir Andrew was a tall and fair man with a bright, honest face that was unable to conceal the obvious admiration he had for Peggy St Just. His father had been friends with Sir Algernon, and he himself a great favorite of that gentleman when a child. Peggy and Andrew had been fast friends in childhood, before her mother's illness and her father's anxiety led the family abroad in search of healthier climates. On Sir Algernon's return with his daughter, the friendship had been renewed and Andrew - then Sir Andrew - had been taken with the latent passion that burned beneath her studied manners, and the strength of character she'd cultivated in herself.

“She was as a sister to me,” he explained to Marguerite. “And when we met again, I felt that filial bond just as strongly. I would have proposed to her myself, but we knew that was not the nature of the love between us. Of course, I knew of her administration of her father's estate. Sir Algernon was quite incapacitated with grief even before his wife died. Afterwards, he would surely have lost everything without Peggy's sense and intelligence.”

Marguerite had been right in her surmise: The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had been Peggy's idea alone, conceived as news of the Terror reached her ears, and developed further with Sir Andrew and their other friends, principal among them Lord Tony Dewhurst. Not a single one of those men sworn into the League – nineteen with Armand's most recent commitment – would think of disobeying a single order given by Peggy, nor of the slightest carelessness regarding her secrecy.

As for his own slip back in London, Sir Andrew had little to say. “Miss Blakeney had little reason to ever take a husband,” he answered Marguerite's pressing questions. “She is heir to her own father's title and fortune, and her mission is too important to her to risk a husband interfering with her privacy. Of course, St Just is a brave and noble man, as you must surely know, Mademoiselle, and as devoted to the cause as any of us, but marriage was never a necessity to her. It never crossed any of our minds that she might be compelled to do so by the direction of her heart.”

Marguerite did not dare to ask more – she could not afford to inflate her hopes too much in that regard. Instead, she steered the conversation around again to praises of Peggy's daring and courage: a subject on which, she was pleased to discover, Sir Andrew delighted in telling.

He recounted for his avid listener the many daring escapades that had been engineered by the resourceful and ingenious Pimpernel, detailing thoroughly every clever move she had made to elude her foes and bring the condemned nobility to safety. He spent a good hour amusing Marguerite with tales of Peggy's numerous disguises, each more ridiculous than the last. Peggy's height and long limbs gave her an advantage in passing as a man, and she had an astonishing gift in imitating anybody's mannerisms and speech, and also of constructing characters so much larger than life that they repelled any further investigation. Including, Marguerite realised, the very character of the foolish Mrs St Just herself!

In rescuing the family de Tournay, for example, she had created the most wicked caricature of an old market woman, with the hair of a dozen executed aristocrats on her whip (donated, Sir Andrew added gaily, from the nineteen men she commanded) and the threat of a plague-ridden grandson in her cart – the very cart in which Suzanne de Tournay hid with her mother and brother!

While on that subject, Sir Andrew's face took on a wistful aspect, and Marguerite smiled for him. How happy it was, to see a man as deeply in love with a sweet girl as he evidently was. She was grateful, twice over, that he and Peggy had never tried to make a match. Firstly, of course, it freed her to marry Armand and sweep into Marguerite's life, but Marguerite could not imagine a man more perfectly suited to little Suzanne's happiness than the gentleman sitting with her now, wiling away the hours with tales of his daring friend.

The wait seemed agonizing, but it had to be borne, and Marguerite spent a restless night taking what sleep she could. It was well into the following day when Sir Andrew brought news that there was a schooner available to charter, and the weather was soon to be acceptable for sailing. The relief was almost overwhelming, but the fresh salt air soon revived her as they embarked for France. Sir Andrew gave her further hope when he told her the tale of a mysterious short man dressed all in black, making similar inquiries as Sir Andrew was searching for a boat. Chauvelin was delayed by the same force that kept them in England. He would be sailing out at the same time.

The trip was short and uneventful, and she felt much more invigorated by being that much closer to her goal. Marguerite wondered, as she walked through Calais, what impenetrable disguise her friend would have adopted to pass unnoticed in this town. Thinking of the many disguises Andrew had described, she found herself longing to see Peggy's genius at work.

Sir Andrew led her to the _Chat Gris_ \- the unremarkable inn that Peggy and her band had frequently used in the past, that her notes to him had let him know she would be using again. There, inquiries of the landlord revealed something unexpected: yes, Peggy was here in town, but as herself! A rich, English lady traveling unchaperoned and conspicuously so, liberal with her purse and brazen with her attitude. So indeed, no one could miss her presence.

Sir Andrew promised to find her, and warn her of Chauvelin's imminent arrival. He arranged at the inn for Marguerite's safety, and left her hidden in a dark loft, where she could look down in secrecy on the dining room of the inn. There, no guest could enter or partake of the establishment's hospitality, without her seeing all. She bade Sir Andrew good luck with his search, and settled in to wait.

Hardly had Marguerite the time to grow accustomed to her cramped quarters when someone was indeed shown into the inn. Two someones, in fact, one of them dressed as a curé, marked by his white collar and broad brimmed hat. Immediately as he started into the room, however, Marguerite recognized his short, insect like frame, his furtive way of moving, and when he looked up to the clock by Marguerite's hiding hole, she caught the steel look in his dark eyes. It was Chauvelin! Here in Calais and at the very inn to which Peggy was bound to return.

Disguised, no doubt, in order to spring a trap for his enemy, Chauvelin gave orders to his companion, - Desgas, his secretary -  about keeping an eye out for “That blasted Pimpernel,” an English stranger in disguise, but gave no further identifying remarks. Neither name nor sex of the prey was mentioned, but Marguerite was sure he must know. Desgas was to return with half a dozen armed guards to this very inn in ten minutes. Six men, and more elsewhere, to catch one woman!

Marguerite's breath caught in her throat. He was here, and before they were able to warn his prey. On Desgas’ departure, Chauvelin called the innkeeper over and made the same inquiries of him that Andrew had – more demanding, and with the threat of arrest behind him, but with the same result. A fair English lady had been in this inn and was abroad in Calais at this moment. It was clear that he knew for whom he was waiting.

With a confident smirk, Chauvelin sat down and began to eat, sipping frequently from the red wine set before him. All his observer could do, trapped in her loft, was to pray, silently and earnestly, that Peggy would not walk in. For what, with all her brilliance and passion, could she do against the man himself on his own soil? On this shore, he commanded soldiers of the Government. He could have Peggy seized at any moment: could seize her himself, if she were only to show herself. What evil plan he had in store for her there, Marguerite dared not imagine. The only thing that could save Peggy now was her absence.

Waiting, and praying, it seemed to Marguerite that the dreadful thump of her heartbeat must surely betray her to her foe, and begun almost to look on his inevitable discovery of her as a welcome relief from the pain of waiting -- until her ear was caught by a sound from outside.

She glanced quickly to Chauvelin. Had he heard it? She hoped he had not, that it would pass by without notice, but no, his head lifted and his glass returned to the table, and she knew he had caught it to. Who could miss it?

Outside, approaching the inn, was the clear, bright sound of a woman singing _God Save the King._

The voice stopped outside the inn, as they both knew it would, and the door handle began to turn. Marguerite longed at that second to fly from her hiding place and scream for Peggy to turn around, but she clenched her hands until her knuckles turned white and stayed in place. Chauvelin had stiffened in his chair, and stared at the door with an expression of bloodthirsty delight that chilled Marguerite to her heart, thinking of the fair lady it was directed towards. Then, before the door could open, he turned away, keeping his face turned towards his meal.

Peggy swept into the inn, and what a picture she looked against the dirt of her surroundings! Every inch the fashion plate, she was exquisite in a spotless white dress, over which she had selected the most striking crimson redingote, with a matching hat perched firmly on her yellow hair. Marguerite could see, with eyes recently opened to Peggy's true character, through every studied inanity and silliness, to the passion and nobility that smoldered beneath those blue eyes. It was obvious, in this moment, how the lady had persuaded nineteen proud English gentlemen to follow her like a Queen, and how thorough the charade that hid this woman from the world. Peggy's song had not stopped, only paused while she worked the door, and now it revived with carefree jollity when inside.

Her gaze swept the room, and for a heartbeat Marguerite was convinced those pretty blue eyes alighted on the black curtain that shielded her loft from view. No sooner had they glanced in that direction, however, did they move on and Marguerite’s brief hope died, because then Peggy was looking at the figure in front of her, still hunched over his food in mimicry of dining. She laughed out loud at his appearance.

“I declare, is that Citizen Chaubertin I see in front of me?”

That gentleman looked up, and a flash of anger crossed his face; whether at being recognized or at having his name misspoken, Marguerite could not tell. It vanished quickly, and was replaced by a slow, greasy smile.

“Chauvelin, Madame St Just.”

“Beg pardon, I am so stupid with names. And whatever brings you to this charming town?” Peggy prattled on indifferently. “I could have sworn I saw you in London just two days ago.”

“A man's business, Madame, may call him to many places very suddenly. I would be more interested by your presence on this shore. It is hardly the favorite leisure destination for London's fashionable set.” As he talked, Chauvelin brought out his snuff box, fidgeting with that and finally taking a sniff when he had finished his speech.

“And is it business that causes you to dress like that?” Peggy said, ignoring his implied question. “Lud, Citizen, have you taken orders, now? I would hardly have thought it of you.”

She had taken a seat now, on the opposite side of the table from Chauvelin, her ungainly legs sprawled out in front of her so that her riding boots were well clear of the hems of her skirts. Her eyes touched on the wine bottle and looked back at him, until he had finished with his snuff and obliged by pouring her a glass.

“A harmless charade, nothing more, Madame St Just. I'm sure you have conducted many of your own in time.”

“Oh no, man – that's enough wine, thank you ever so much – if I were to adopt a disguise, you can be assured it would be much more thorough than that. Why, I knew you straight away. Perhaps with some powder – ”

She leaned forward, across the table, steadying herself with one hand over his snuff box, while the other whipped away his hat to get a better look at his face.

“...but no, I fear there really would be nothing you can do about that nose.”

She seemed so idle in offering what appeared to be well placed advice that Marguerite would have laughed out loud, were she not frozen where she lay. As if to prove that her insult was meant with the best of intentions, Peggy let out one of those loud snorts that she was so famed for in London, and sat back.

“But perhaps the disguise is not meant for me, what? Perhaps it is to waylay suspicions while you focus your pursuit of me in secret....” there was no response, although Chauvelin had stilled where he sat “...good lord, Citizen! Don't you know I am happily married!” She placed a hand over her breast in honest seeming shock, and gasped – before dissolving into that braying laugh of hers.

Chauvelin was white with fury at these insinuations from the Englishwoman, but Marguerite could see that he also appeared impotent in that rage. He rose from his chair, an action that did not quite hide the furtive glance he gave to the clock, which he otherwise could not see without turning in his chair. He picked up his hat, which Peggy had so carelessly swept on to the table.

“Happily married, indeed! And where is your husband, Madame?”

“Why, here in France, of course!” she declared lightly. “La, but you have not finished your meat. Would you mind terribly, monsieur? Dreadfully forward, I know.”

“By all means,” Chauvelin conceded, with a sarcastic bow.

For one dreadful moment, Marguerite feared the food might be poisoned – but had she not just seen Chauvelin himself partaking of that same dish? She bit her tongue, especially as her enemy had drawn close to her now, using the mirror on the wall to adjust his hat, and also to inspect his nose for the truth of Peggy's careless insult.

“What was I saying?” The lady was saying, pausing only to fetch the pepperpot and apply the contents liberally to her food. “Demmed French food, all blood and no bite – oh yes! What possible reason would a married woman have for coming to this dreary country but to meet her husband? Beg your pardon, Chauvelin, of course you cannot help being French.”

Chauvelin gave another predatory smile and touched the brim of his now secured hat. “Indeed I cannot, Madame. And you and your husband will to Paris, I assume?”

“Oh no, man. Lille, only.” Peggy was too engrossed in her food to notice the man circling the table as a wolf, until he was nearly standing over her foot “Dangerous place now, Paris, is it not? I'm sure I do not care to visit it this year at least.”

She finished what he had left of his plate in a few hungry bites before cleaning her mouth and hands with a serviette and looking up at him with a lazy smile.

“Lud, monsieur, what are you at?” she asked casually. “You are standing so close I can hardly move. Step back, won't you?”

With an inclination of his head, Chauvelin did, allowing Peggy room to stand up. At her full height, she stood a head taller than him. It presented an amusing tableau, the tall elegant lady looking down lazily at the tense, coiled man, him squinting up at her with poorly restrained hatred. She hardly seemed to notice it.  
To Marguerite's watching eye, Peggy seemed the tallest she ever had, an Amazon standing over her enemy. There was something regal about her in that moment, and Marguerite realized that it was because Peggy never usually straightened her posture, stood to her full height. When she did now, she towered over the man. Any intimidation he'd thought of using over the woman was completely lost in her casual stretch and the way she smiled indulgently down at him. It forced him to take a step back, as he did so looking nervously at the clock; a look which caused Peggy to do the same.

“Lud, citizen!” she declared. “you will keep glancing to that clock. What, are you worried that someone is hiding in it? With a sword, perhaps, determined to run you through?”

It was testament to Chauvelin's stretched nerves that he jumped and turned to the clock in alarm, at which sight Peggy only laughed. “Good lord, man! No one could hide in a clock that size! Are you mad? But I see you are looking for your snuff,” - for now Chauvelin was patting down his clothing anxiously. “Do you not see it is on the table where you left it.”

So it was, although its presence was greeted with some suspicion. Had it been there when he stood, took his hat, and watched his meal taken by Peggy? But now the small silver box was indeed waiting for him on the table, and he snatched it up, glancing at the lady with a curious look of triumph, for at this moment, they could hear the careful measured steps of a band of trained soldiers. The men sent for, coming to arrest poor Peggy while she merely amused herself picking at Chauvelin's patience.

He smiled that smile of triumph, and took a pinch of snuff.

He had no way to know, that in Peggy's lazy impudence, she had stolen his box from the table as he poured her wine, and filled it with pepper as she ate! The convulsive sneezing that seized him was all-consuming; doubled over, he had no way of seeing, let alone preventing, Peggy St Just from calmly turning on her heel, and slipping out of the room.

Chauvelin's men burst in while he was still in the throes of the sneezing fit, and had to wait until he had enough composure to stammer out:

“The woman! The English woman! Did you see her? Stop her!”

There was a heavy pause in which Desgas met the questioning glances of the soldiers before turning back to his master.

“The... woman?”

But Chauvelin had no time for their contempt at his letting a mere woman escape. He raged at them, and Desgas eventually admitted he had heard talk of a tall English lady having a conversation with a local merchant, contriving to hire him and his cart for a journey to a hut, belonging to a man known as ‘Pere Blanchard.’ Now they knew the _rendezvous_ point for Peggy and Armand, and could close the net on both of them! Chauvelin sent his soldiers on to scout the road for the cart bearing the Scarlet Pimpernel. One soldier attempted a joke about searching for a woman, but he was silenced quickly.

\------------------

It was agony for Marguerite. She watched from her hiding place as Chauvelin paced the inn, sending Desgas out on errands to find out as much information about the cart as possible. Desgas returned with another carter, who was familiar with the area and had witnessed Peggy herself making the transaction. Chauvelin employed the man to lead the way to the hut, and carry Chauvelin himself to the meeting place. Desgas was to find a full unit of soldiers and follow behind.

As Chauvelin left the inn, heading out of town, Marguerite knew she had follow him. Just to see Peggy, just to warn her once, to fight with the last of her own breath to save her beloved, was all Marguerite could think of.

The night was dark and cold, and she pulled her wrap tight around her as she followed the party at as safe a distance as she could put between them. The wind was picking up as she left, and the cloud cover was complete, threatening rain at anytime. But the howling winds at least covered her steps on the edge of the road, which she kept as quiet and as small as possible, to protect her from backwards turning eyes. She followed the road carefully, her feet slipping in the mud, in shoes that were the height of fashion in London, but were completely unsuitable for walking for any length of time. Her skirts tore in the bracken, and she shivered in the cold, but she kept her heart firmly on the destination: on seeing Peggy again.

After over an hour of walking, the cart bearing Chauvelin was met by his soldiers, galloping in the opposite direction. There Captain reported that they had seen no evidence of this English Lady, for whose existence they had only Chauvelin’s word and the word of the merchant to believe. However, they had found the hut they were sure was the _rendezvous_. There, they had from a distance, seen two men that fit the descriptions of both Armand and the Comte de Tournay, and heard enough of their conversation to know they were waiting for the Pimpernel.

The Captain made a point, in relating what he had heard, that Armand St Just referred to his leader as il and not elle. Chauvelin dismissed that point angrily.

They had left soldiers guarding that hut from any new arrivals, and come back to report to Chauvelin and receive further orders. He delighted. Marguerite, hearing all this, despaired. Peggy could not hope to escape, now. She would arrive at the hut only to have the soldiers close in on her, and all would be lost. Unless somehow - God knew how! - Marguerite could possibly warn her in time.

She felt that hope slipping away from her. Now all she could hope for would be to tell Peggy how she felt, to finally push both their fears aside and spend the last moments of her life with the woman she loved, for that love was now no more dangerous than the situation they were in.

Marguerite’s body ached from fatigue, and her feet throbbed in pain, but she kept on in the mud. It amounted to nearly two hours’ total effort on that road before they reached their destination: a tiny, run-down fisherman’s hut on a cliff overlooking a rocky beach. She found herself the best hiding place she could, and listened to Chauvelin giving further orders to his men to form a perimeter around the hut, through which no person could pass without notice.

He ordered them to be as silent as possible not only to avoid the notice of the men within, but to prevent anyone of any stripe from entering the hut. The carter, who had led them this far by the promise of payment, was threatened, terrorized and tightly bound to prevent escape or warning of their victims. Once Peggy arrived, then they could close in and capture her, and the men inside waiting for relief. In the meanwhile, all anyone could do was wait.

Marguerite sagged in the mud, ready to give in to despair. Her shoes had pinched her feet into agony, and she took them off, exposing torn stockings to the cold air and affording herself a brief respite. How she envied Peggy’s riding boots at that moment! She had come wholly unsuited for the exertion. But in her stockinged feet she could move noiselessly around the hedge on the side of the road towards the beach and the hut to find a better view of the situation, scrambling for the hope that there could be something she could do, some way of ending this torturous wait.

As she cleared her view of the beach she saw her: A schooner sitting quietly on the water, not three miles from the hut, clean white sails set and ghost-like in what moonlight was pushing through the clouds. The _Day Dream_ , Peggy’s favorite yacht, waiting for a master and mistress who would never reach her.

She froze and sank down again now that she had closed a small distance towards the hut and the soldiers, moving inland slightly to put herself away from the _Day Dream_ and any glances turned that way. Marguerite could once again hear Chauvelin talking to his men. They too, had seen and recognized the ship, and were on alert again. They had scouted the hut and discovered four men inside; Armand, de Tournay, and two others Marguerite could not identify, all waiting for the Scarlet Pimpernel and release. But the plan, as Chauvelin gave it, did not change. They waited in the dark for her fated appearance.

Oh, Peggy! Where could she be? Marguerite could feel the treacherous hope rising that perhaps Peggy had indeed been warned off by her encounter with Chauvelin at the _Chat Gris_. Perhaps she had turned around and sought safety for herself. 

No. No, this was impossible, Marguerite knew. She understood enough of Peggy’s character now to know the how inconceivable it would be to her to would abandon her husband and the men she had sworn to rescue. And where would she go without the _Day Dream_?

Marguerite could feel her senses numbing in the cold, and the inevitability of despair as she waited for some relief from the wait. She pinched her arm to keep herself alert and strained to listen for any sign of Peggy. She had been waiting there for half an hour when she heard the faintest sound from the beach - the weight of a person on pebbles! Marguerite almost cried out, and had to bite down on her lip to prevent her from doing so.

There, crouching on the beach, picking their way as quietly as possible to the shore, were four men - Armand and the Comte de Tournay among them. And waiting for them in the surf, a small dinghy with a single man at the oars. They were making their way to safety! It had been the Comte’s careless foot on the rocks that had made the noise, and Armand turned around to see if anyone had looked over.

His eyes met Marguerite’s and he froze in shock.

Their eyes met, and even in the dark, the brother and sister could communicate the faintest understanding between them. Armand had been in the middle of executing a planned escape, but he had not expected to see her there, and now all his plans were thrown into uncertainty. He dropped back from the party and beckoned desperately at her. They had to leave!

But Chauvelin was between Marguerite and the beach. If Marguerite tried to approach him, they would find her, and find Armand escaping, and all would be for naught. And if Armand delayed much longer, their eyes would turn that way naturally and he would be seen.

She shook her head furiously and turned her back on him, scrambling up the grassy slope away from the beach. It took an effort to put her sore feet down heavily, but she carefully made just enough noise to counter the men creeping on the beach. She even relaxed her steady control of her breath, letting it come in gasps from her heightened tension.

A hand closed tightly on her skirt, then on her ankle, and pulled her down. Marguerite landed in the mud, and turned around to look Chauvelin right in the eye. Beyond his triumphant face, she could see Armand turning helplessly and completing his journey to the boat.

She was now Chauvelin’s prisoner. But Armand, with enough sense not to put the men he was rescuing in danger for the sake of his sister, was making his escape. Now the only lives to be lost were Peggy’s and her own, and if any life had to be lost alongside, or exchanged for, the woman she valued most highly, Marguerite now had the power to make it hers.

Chauvelin did not pass up the opportunity to gloat over her. Immediately, someone mockingly asked if this was the lady they were waiting for. His master did not even mind the remark.

“No, my friend. This is someone else.”

For now he had Peggy St Just’s sister-in-law - the sister of the man he believed to still be in the hut waiting for relief. All Chauvelin could see in his greed for victory was an innocent woman he could use in his complex game to capture the woman he hated so much. Did he suspect what Peggy meant to her? Marguerite did not think that, but he did have a trophy now.

She was bound and tied, and he threatened to gag her, but changed his mind at the opportunity to torture her further. Instead, he silenced her with the threat that the slightest attempt to warn her brother or his wife would be met with the execution of every last person in the hut.

Marguerite shivered in the cold, and met Chauvelin’s eyes with her own wide and round, letting him think she was shaking in fear. Armand was safe, but Peggy - where was she? And now Marguerite was caught, could she hope to see her again?

Confident that Marguerite could not escape and would not betray her brother, Chauvelin let her lie, bound and miserable in the mud. She could hardly feel the force of her bonds, in the cold and her fatigue. But the relief of having seen Armand allowed her to succumb finally to exhaustion. She swooned where she lay, dropping out of consciousness.

It was in this swoon that she heard it, and thought it might be a dream. Peggy’s clear and solid voice singing God Save the King, carried on the wind so that no one could be quite certain in which direction or for how far it carried. The sound of the men stirring was what brought Marguerite into full awareness. They had heard it too.

It was Marguerite’s chance. She squirmed in the mud against her bonds, and screamed, clearly into the night.

“Armand! Armand, my brother! Fire! Your leader is here! He is betrayed! Fire, Armand!”

She was sure there was no hiding the sex of Peggy’s voice, but she was not going to name her now. Not when she had seen the disdain Chauvelin had met. Let every one but himself believe the Pimpernel a man. Maybe she could still escape with Peggy if that were the case. She screamed and she screamed with the very last of her energy, and fell back down, quite faint again.

The singing was silenced as soon as Marguerite’s screams rang out, but the air was soon filled with male shouts and curses, and the heavy tread of boots as Chauvelin ordered them into the hut to fulfill his threat. The curses were louder when they found it empty, the men disappeared.

He turned angrily to the Captain of his men, demanding to know why he had been disobeyed, only to be reminded that his orders were to let no one _enter_ the hut, and had not mentioned the possibility of people _leaving_.

She bit back a smile and stayed quiet as she listened to events, keeping her face the perfect mask of surprise. She listened, as the soldiers found a note in the hut, bearing the signature of a hastily drawn five petalled flower, and telling of her presence in a certain creek back near Calais. The boat, she directed, was to meet her there.

“St. Just is lost, but the Pimpernel shall be ours!” Chauvelin declared. He found among his men someone who was sure of the way that they would be at the identified location before the boat had time to make the trip. Chauvelin had victory within his sight, but he still suffered from the loss of St Just and de Tournay, and needed to vent his frustration. The wretched carter, who lay bound firmer than Marguerite and gagged, became the object for this. He was tied and beaten so his howls of pain echoed across the bay, before Chauvelin and his soldiers hastened away.

They abandoned Marguerite on the rocky shore. She still missed her shoes and she was too exhausted physically and emotionally to move at all. Maybe they thought her unconscious; she did not care.

She had been so hopeful for a second, but Peggy was still to be hunted down by her enemies, still not safe. And Marguerite was now unable to reach her. In the silence left by the departing soldiers, she wept.

\-----------------------

  
“Damn!”

The curse rang out clear, and bright, completely British and completely womanly. Marguerite gasped quietly, still choking on tears that prevented her from matching the curse for volume.

The voice continued:

“Lud, but I wish they hadn't been quite so brutish. I will have to wear shawls for weeks!”

Finally, Marguerite found her voice. “Peggy! Oh dearest, won't you show yourself?”

“It's all very well asking me that, dear, but I'm trussed up here quite firmly. I'm afraid if you want to see me, you shall have to make the distance yourself.

It was the carter! Tied and beaten by Chauvelin out of nothing more than spite for not catching Peggy. How Marguerite would love to see their faces had they known! She scrambled to her feet, then fell again as her bleeding soles failed to take her weight, crawling desperately across the pebbles to where, she now saw, Peggy had adopted the most perfect disguise of a man, and had borne through a man's shirt the pain and humiliation of a beating.

“Peggy,” she said, as she reached her, “Oh Peggy cherie, what have they done to you?”

She collapsed by Peggy's side, laying her hands gently on the back of the shirt, and was almost horrified to see Peggy wince away from her touch.

“Nothing I wouldn't take again, dear. But would you... my hands.”

Her hands and legs had indeed been tied quite firmly to the rock, and Marguerite worked with nails and teeth to get them undone, crying all the time with sympathy and with relief, and not in small part with her own fatigue as well. All the time, Peggy muttered soothing words in that affected drawl of hers.

“Hush, now. Hush, my Margot. It's not as bad as all that.”

When she was untied, Peggy found the jacket she had worn as a man, and draped it gently around Marguerite's shoulders, neither of them even trying to stand. Marguerite sat there as the woman she had betrayed so carelessly gently smoothed the woolen coat over her shoulders, looking down at her work rather than up at Marguerite. Then she stopped.

With her arms still on Marguerite's, in the act of dressing her, Peggy's head swayed, and in a swoon she dropped it down on Marguerite's shoulder.

“Oh Peggy!” Marguerite cried, easing the fainted woman off her shoulder and laying her down in her own lap. The jacket was weighted curiously, and an inspection of the pockets produced a flask of brandy, which she gently touched to Peggy's lips.

Peggy stirred and blinked up in the darkness at Marguerite,. She smiled, and lifted a heavy hand to take Marguerite's own.

“My darling nurse,” she said. “Where would I be without you?”

“Oh!” Marguerite, who had been overjoyed to see Peggy's eyes open, now looked away in shame. “Oh Peggy, if only you knew.”

“Lud! That thing at the ball?” Peggy pushed herself up onto her elbows, unable to sit quite yet, but determined to keep her back off the rocks. “I knew, Margot. A trifling thing, long since forgiven, now quite forgotten.”

“But...”

“Now hush.” Peggy, with great effort, brought herself to sit. “My Margot, you are forgetting that you saved my life tonight. For if I had not been forewarned by Sir Andrew of Chauvelin's presence in Calais, I would have walked straight into his trap.”

“Sir Andrew – he found you?”

“He found me and told me you were waiting for me, precious. Something he would never do if you had not brought him here. Sterling chap, all the way. Obeys every single one of my orders, of course. But when my orders were to stay home, it took you to take charge. My life is yours, my dear.”

Peggy explained the rest of the plot; how she had colluded with the men inside to have them sneak out quietly and board the boat while she waited out. How she had slipped Armand a false note to leave for  Chauvelin, sending him on a wild goose chase, and how all they had to do now was wait for Ffoulkes himself, to bring them to a smaller dinghy and then to the _Day Dream_.

Marguerite could not help herself at that point, she threw her arms around Peggy and covered her cheek with kisses. It was Peggy who interrupted her, taking both Marguerite's tiny hands in her own and bringing them down between the ladies. Her indifferent air was all gone, her affected laziness failing to completely hide an intense passion burning behind them.

“You saved my life, Margot,” she said again. “My dearest, Margot. How could I not have seen how noble, and brave you are?”

“Brave, me? Peggy -”

“No, you are brave,” Peggy said, her voice steady, but her inanity not quite holding up. “For did you not come here with nothing but the wind under your feet to carry you? And I – who commands a band of men like a general – I am afraid.”

“Hush.” Now it was Marguerite's turn to sooth the other. “Do not be afraid, chere. Do not! I am at your side, now. And will never leave it, if you will -”

The rest of her sentence was lost, for Peggy drew Marguerite to her then, and closed her mouth over Marguerite's own.

After that first, long, sweet kiss, Marguerite sighed and heard Peggy do the same, before they looked each other in the eyes. Everything else they would want to say was communicated then, without words.  
They sat, then, as lovers on the rocky beach, with Marguerite eventually laying her head on Peggy's shoulder. Their fingers entwined with each other, now on Peggy's knee, now on Marguerite's, it mattered not. Together, they watched the Eastern sky grow silver, until the sound of a foot on the pebbles tore Marguerite out of her reverie.

“Someone is coming!” The last half hour had done a little to soothe her nerves, but she still startled, while Peggy smiled and smoothed out Marguerite's auburn hair from her face.

“Of course,” she said. “It is only Sir Andrew. What ho, Ffoulkes!”

That gentleman had seen them now, and he touched his hand to his hat as he approached.

“My ladies,” he said, with a gallant bow. “Your brother and husband await you on the _Day Dream_ , as you ordered, Mrs St Just.”

“Everyone got out without a hitch?”

“As smooth as ever.”

“Good show.”

Still dressed as a carter, Peggy stood slowly, picking a strand of auburn hair from her shirt as naturally as a man adjusting his cravat. The only concession to the terrible beating she had taken was in the softest groan as she straightened her back.

“Oh, Sir Andrew. I'm afraid my sister has done herself a terrible injury to her feet. Carry her to the boat, won't you?”

Marguerite put her hands up genteelly and Andrew scooped her up in his arms. Peggy stood by his side, leaning on him slightly, but her hand soon found Marguerite's fingers, and she pressed them gently.

“La, sir,” Marguerite teased. “Carrying another lady like a bride. What would darling Suzanne say?”

“She would say,” he replied, steadily, “that I am a noble and chivalrous man, and a worthy member of the League.”

“Have you made your case to her father yet, Andrew?” Peggy inquired lazily.

“I have been in the man's acquaintance for little more than an hour, my lady,” he replied, with a familiar smile. “I thought it might wait.”

“Until we put shore in England, then, but not a moment before,” she replied. “You must never lose hold of your love once you've found her.”

“Is that an order, my captain?”

Peggy squeezed Marguerite's hand again. “Yes, sir. It is.”

\-----------------------

What more is there to say? In Armand's cabin on the _Day Dream_ , the ladies clung to each other like they were afraid to be parted, and Armand, as master of the vessel, was able to give them the privacy they needed. He and Andrew talked, on that voyage; and an arrangement was made, a vow to secrecy implied, and silent approval given of the happiness of the women, one a sister, and one as good as to her dearest friend.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, as good as his word, wasted no time at all in securing the approval of the Comte de Tournay, but his happiness would have to be delayed by a few weeks following the loss of Sir Algernon, who had been as an uncle to him. Sir Algernon was succeeded by Dame Peggy St Just, and she and her husband, it was said, had as happy a marriage as any of the more passionate couples in England.

Marguerite St Just continued to live with her brother and his wife on their Richmond estate, and for many years retained her title as the darling of English society. She never took a husband, and in doing so, kept many a heart aching.

As for Chauvelin: his claims that the Scarlet Pimpernel was a woman were met with incredulity by his masters, and ridicule by his men, and after a while he ceased to repeat them. He was never invited back to England.


End file.
